


Fluency

by iniquiticity



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greenhouses, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Military, Established Relationship, M/M, Reunions, Weird Vibes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 07:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10509006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: To have his husband appear as a suggestion to be a chief staff aide - with a beard and shorter hair, to disguise himself from anyone who might’ve noticed and didn’t have the decency to pretend otherwise. Alexander, his dear thing, his thistle -alive.(A Greenhouses AU.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a spinoff AU of my longfic [on the construction and tending of greenhouses](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6184234/chapters/14167825), where they go to war in the future at some point. I don't think you don't have to read that for this to make sense, but it will help. 
> 
> Also, this story has sort of a strange vibe to it? Maybe it needs more or something? Anyway, deadlines. If you think you have an idea of why it feels weird, message or comment. 
> 
> For [cattlaydee](http://www.cattlaydee.tumblr.com/) for Fight Back Fic Auction.

Among all the things Washington missed about peacetime was the pure quiet of his manor. Even during the night the camp was alive with fires crackling and the nightmares of other soldiers and all the nighttime duties that had to be done before the sun rose. Occasionally he dreamt of the still-quiet of the manor and his library, unruffled and unbothered, as if the whole place was unreachable from the world. 

To have his husband appear as a suggestion to be his chief staff aide - with a beard and shorter hair, to disguise himself from anyone who might’ve noticed and didn’t have the decency to pretend otherwise. Alexander, his dear thing, his thistle - _alive_. Months had passed since their fight, since Alexander had said _The last thing I need from you is permission!_ and slammed his door with a rattle fierce enough that Washington had heard books quake off shelves. He himself had gone to bed seething. When he woke up for another day of planning to go to war, his husband had disappeared, only leaving one of his prickly thistles as a note.

He had sent the word out, but there had been little the man was more talented at than not being found, when did not wish to be. 

For a while he had thought about abandoning the war. But - and he was certainly Alexander would have known this - he did not. He became the general. He was the general with the absent husband, whom it was know he held a great amount of affection for. Perhaps it was Alexander’s many tortures, that he be the thistle general, and each time thought painfully of the man who had suggested the title. 

So there was a war. And a man had died on his staff, from a camp fever. And so promotions were suggested. 

And his husband had been one. _Colonel Alexander Hamilton._ Of course. Of course, and he had almost lost it in that moment, seeing the lineup. He had interviewed the other two. And then interviewed them again. And now for the last of the second round. 

Colonel Alexander Hamilton entered his tent. He had a new scar that crept out of his sleeve, on the back of his hand. All the old scars were still there. Colonel Alexander Hamilton had a new uniform and a different hairstyle and a goatee but the eyes were the same, and the jut of his chin was the same, and the lips were the same, and the cold-fire feel of his anger was the same. 

“Leave us,” Washington said, to the tent guard. 

One of the guards leaned down, “Sir,” she said, in a fierce whisper, “Out of all of them - this one could be danger. Little is known about his family - if he is married-- if he---” 

Washington made cold eye contact with the soldier, who took a step back .

“Was my order unclear, soldier?” 

“No, sir,” the woman said, with a hint of an apology, and the guards disappeared. 

Alexander stood at perfect attention in the center of his tent. The attention to detail was unusual - heels together, hands clenched at his side, chin up. Definitely leaner being fed a military diet of an enlisted man with no reputation to speak of, rather than the 3 full meals of being the husband of General Washington. 

“I’m glad to have you here, Colonel Hamilton,” Washington said, looking through the reviews that had been left by unknowing commanders. _Ingenious and forceful but lacks respect_ , read one. _Fantastically adaptive, efficient, useful, but often unbearable,_ said another. A third was most succinct, though perhaps passed on by accident: _often right and STILL no one wants to be on his side because asses in a foul mood are more diplomatic._

“General Washington,” Alexander said. 

“The superiors who recommended you to me had very interesting things to say about you,” Washington said, and he looked away from the man despite how long it had been. They were at war now; this was a soldier; he was a commander. He flipped through the papers on his desk, “They speak very well of your work ethic, and yet it seems that you certainly make yourself known in unique ways to your superior officers.

There was a shift, and the lean colonel in front of him was his husband again. Alexander dropped the neat salute and ran a hand through his hair - a fidget so familiar that Washington’s whole self had to resist the urge to do-- _something_. Then, Alexander crossed his arms across his chest and cast him a deeply skeptical impression. “Really?” he said. He was not usually so laconic. Had his experience changed him somehow? What could have happened, that every circumstance did not immediately turn into some rant? 

“Well,” Washington responded, and then he shuffled his papers off to the side and leaned back against the chair, “You had seemed to lack the desire to be found. If you wanted to come to me, you know it would be easy to find my location, and yet you did not. Instead you permitted me the knowledge of you only through this promotion, as if you think I do not already think you are one of, if not the most, capable people that I know. So I must confess I am at great odds to what you want from me, and I would like it if you would merely come out with it, despite such a thing being against the base of your nature.” 

His Alexander snorted a too-familiar laugh. It was a strange feeling, to see the man again, looking generally in good health. He had often imagined their reunion - there would be a long embrace, and the soft feeling of the other man’s lips, and something snide about how they always found each other. It would be sunrise, and perhaps they would be mud-spattered and yet not see it. 

Never in his daydreams were they ruined like this, and furthermore he felt different - cool. Perhaps it was only that he felt overwhelmed and the bulk of his feelings were held at bay by his mind, or that part of him knew that this was simply not the best time to be losing one’s senses about one’s partner, and yet in all honesty he did not believe any of these were the main culprit, although they may have had some play into the matter. 

No. he had been right. It would not have been difficult for Alexander to find him at any time. There were so many ways that Alexander could have spoken to to him, either in person or through some cleverly coded message. He could have gone through channels they shared, or friends, or ten thousand other ways. And yet only now was he seeing this colonel who happened to be the husband he missed. 

Perhaps it would have been different, if it had been a week or two or four after Alexander had fled. But four months was enough to temper a man’s heart. 

Alexander did not speak. Alexander wanted something from him, then. Alexander wanted him to say some specific thing, or indicate some feeling. He thought Alexander might not like how he felt at this moment - that yes, he was grateful, but the gratefulness was cool at the edge. 

Although, if his husband wished him to speak more, he could hardly deny the opportunity, as rare as it was. 

“I do not think you actually desire this promotion,” he continued, embracing the strange calm he felt, “Being my chief staff aide is long hours copying missives and taking orders. Very little recognition and very little combat. Most of the advantages of such a ranking are knowing much about how I prefer to work, and being well-connected to me and my associates. As you are already both of these things, I think you have accepted this promotion for personal reasons, perhaps to display to me that you are very capable without me, which is ridiculous, because one of the first things I knew about you was how capable of a soldier you have always been. And I must confess that it seems quite low to be using a very real, very terrible war in such a personal manner, and while we have the advantage now that is no guarantee, and we should not relax and be smug.” 

This seemed to make a more significant impact, because Alexander took a step back and glanced around the tent at his war paraphernalia as if he just saw it. Alexander glanced past the tent fabric, and then drew his fingers down the front facing of his coat, to gather himself. Then they made eye contact again and Alexander’s eyes were hard and defensive. 

“You hardly seem that excited to have me back,” he said, perfectly accusingly. 

In a different time, Washington knew such a thing would have torn straight through his heart. But he did not feel that way, now. He knew the attack, yes. He knew how it should have felt, and the things that it said. But he knew what had happened, and he knew himself, and he knew their reality. 

“Alexander,” he said, and he folded his fingers on the desk and looked up at the man, “I have already grieved for you because I thought you were dead. That was easier for me to process rather than the thought you no longer wanted me because I acted under the horrifying fear that you _would_ die.” 

Another blow struck. Alexander broke their eye contact. “I am very hard to kill,” he said to the ground. 

Washington cleared his throat. “So,” he said, with a familiar air of conclusion, “I am glad that you have returned. I may be more glad, if you stay. But I have become accustomed to a less fulfilling life without you because that was what I had, as empty as it was. It is not easy to run a war when you feel as if someone has run off with your heart and left twisted iron in it’s place, and no feedback when you are expecting it, but it is even more difficult to do so when you are constantly contemplating your misery and three breaths away from a sob. And more than anyone else you would know how important it is for me to be the most capable general I can be.” 

He had not meant to be poetic; he was not by nature a decent speaker without many drafts, although his husband often disagreed. And yet Alexander would no longer look at him, and instead became riveted in one of his hanging maps, that he would not have seen before, as it was new to the war. Washington had become quite good at reading his husband, even with four months of rust. He knew when he had struck a chord, intentionally or otherwise. 

There was a silence. Alexander loathed silence. It was a strange, unsatisfying sort of victory. When he had been alone at first he had constantly imagined and reimagined their reunion, and it was not so hard and cold, like a weapon. 

“I would have preferred to go with you, and like this,” Alexander said, and in a sharp movement brought his head up and glared at Washington, as if he had not been the one disappear into the distance. 

“Yes,” Washington replied, and kept his voice placid, for he knew that his calm was his eternal weapon in marital disputes, “And you suitably punished me for my miscalculation. I was in error. I sought to control you when I should not have done such a thing. I would have offered an apology much sooner, if you would let me. But the apology is a bit stale at present.” 

Even someone without his practice at reading the man would see the frustration growing, like mercury in a thermometer. Alexander wanted him to shout, as he always did. He did not, as he always did. He remembered their arguments with the clarity of a clear pond. He would merely have to be calm in the face of the storm, and the storm would crumble. 

“You forced me to do this, by pretending to be my jailer,” Alexander said. 

“You may believe so, if that gives you comfort,” Washington said. 

He felt it in the air before he saw. His husband folded his arms across his chest, dropped his head, and stared at him through his eyelashes. Even in their queer disputes, the man was remarkably handsome. 

“You are very angry at me, if you are acting like this,” Alexander said, and he took three more steps closer and put his hands flat on the desk that was now the only thing that separated them. “Even though I am alive, and unharmed, and returned to you.” 

“Yes,” Washington said, and was surprised the thing had slipped so easily from him. He stood from his chair and walked around the desk until they stood close. Then, as if reaching for a document, he took one of those narrow hands in both his own and studied it. He remembered the narrow fingers and chewed nails and slight wrists. He remembered the secret strength of them, and their warmth. The hand he held was a skilled, remarkable thing. 

He was permitted to remember that hand, to feel along the lines of muscle and the spiderwebbing blue veins under the skin. The inkstains constantly on the tips of his fingers were gone. There were little scars there instead, from handling weapons. A new scar, too, on the meat of the palm, that was still dark. At least it was not infected. 

The hand easily slipped from his grasp and took hold of the material of his jacket. He knew the grip. He rested his hand on the fisted palm there. He had become well-practiced to listening to Alexander’s silences, and understanding the lines of his face, and the gleam in his eyes. 

“If you had been injured, I would have known,” Alexander said. 

Washington quirked an eyebrow at that, and then he was allowed to pull the hand from his jacket and press it flat against the material. It was warm. His husband always ran hot, perhaps from the fervor of his energy, or the passion behind his ideals. 

“Would you have?” 

“I know the tenor that they speak of you. Even if you had tried to hide an injury, I would know. I know when you have not slept, because of how you are described. I know when you are pretending and when you are truly satisfied with some encounter.” Alexander stepped forward, until the space between them was small enough that Washington could see the new wrinkles forming in his forehead and at the corners of his mouth. 

“I think it quite unfair, for you to have such knowledge, and for you to deny me it,” he said, “For no one spoke of you. And you know I shall leave you to whatever escape you like - be it a battalion or your library or your bedroom or your workshop or your study or outside or the city - until you wish to return. And you know I could not go seeking you.” 

Alexander lifted his other hand, and flattened them both against his chest, straightening out some invisible wrinkle in his jacket. The hands were dirtier than the jacket he sought to clear. They were worn. “I would have alerted you, if I had been injured.” 

“I see that you have.” He glanced to the scar on his wrist. 

“I have been more injured falling down the steps than this,” Alexander retorted, and rolled his eyes. 

“And how would you have alerted me if you were dead?” 

A flash of a smirk. He had been out-maneuvered, he knew, in an instant. “Did you not already think I was? I think no alert would have been required. It would not have been so bad, for circumstances to make your assumption correct. You like to be right.” 

He shook his head. “You underestimate yourself, as you do. It would be terrible, if you were dead. There is no one else like you.” 

“You could find a more orderly husband, as you have always desired.” 

“I have always desired you, and without you I would desire no other.” 

“You could marry Lady Dandridge. Certainly you could not miss the opportunity for a third time.” 

“Myself and Lady Dandridge have both put marrying each other to rest.” 

“You only say because I am alive and in good health.” 

“You like to say so, but you know perfectly well that it is not the case.” Here he let go of the hands that held his chest, and stepped away from them, taking two more steps into the tent and glancing around the worn fabric and his various accoutrements. He glanced back at the papers on the desk, which had become no less done than they had been when Alexander had appeared, in the way only he could master. He let his thoughts wander a moment or three. 

There had been the moment where he had woken up the next day and Alexander had been gone. He had felt bad about their argument and had thought up some drafts of his apology, but there was no husband to apologize to. Alexander had left all his jackets and waistcoats and taken his weapons and the four books he had decided were necessary. He had left a freshly cut thistle, bright violet and green. Even without words, Washington had known what it meant. 

Without Alexander there, he saw no reason not to go as well. It was terrible, to think his husband could be anywhere, underfed and injured. He thought Alexander might be enjoying whatever his new life was. But then casualty rolls would come in and he would wonder what name his husband was using, and if he was on one of those lists. 

The wound had bled, scabbed, and scarred. The part of him that he missed became something else. He could not attend to it, not now, not when he was needed by his country. 

And here it returned, new skin, fresh and pink and soft. He turned back to say something to Alexander - something about how he wished the thing had been different, about how terribly he missed him, about those first two weeks, which had felt like being held too close to an open flame - but he was distracted by the fact that the man had stripped out of his clothes and was standing, naked as the day he had been born, in the center of his tent. 

Hardly fresh and pink and soft. There were other new scars. Smears of dirt that he had gathered between washings. His chest had never been broad but now he seemed thinner than ever. The old scars were a little paler than they had been, but they were there. 

It had always seemed both hysterical and tragic to Washington, how they were with words. He, of course, was admired. Venerated and worshipped and idolized. And yet the things about him that were worshipped were almost completely artificial. He was truly very little like the man they admired, and somehow that stopped no one from admiring him. The speeches they liked of his had been written and rewritten, imagined and reimagined, to sound spontaneous. Even the unplanned things he said had been carefully reviewed in his own mind. They always seemed to like what he said. 

And yet, it seemed he could never manage the right words with Alexander. He could never come up with the easy solutions to his husband’s problems. He could stumble over paragraph after paragraph and never find the right result. 

His Alexander, of course, could write until his hand fell off for one of his essays. Be persuasive and incredible in debate. Argue until he turned blue and his enemy went home. When they argued Alexander could be more vindictive than any enemy he had ever known, and sometimes Alexander was incapable of saying the words that he actually wanted. 

Washington’s solution to that trouble was to draft and redraft until everything seemed right; Alexander's solution was to take off his clothes and kiss him until they had forgotten what they were angry about. What Alexander’s bare chest said was _Here I am now._ What Alexander said when he took off his clothes and stared at him like that was _I want to make up._

Sometimes Washington would have preferred a real apology, but he was not foolish enough to turn down the bare sight of the man that he loved. He blew out most of the candles in the tent and took his jacket off, hanging it across the back of the chair. He took off his neckcloth and his waistcoat and his boots, and then he sat on his bed and Alexander climbed into his lap without asking. 

Alexander pressed his face into Washington’s shirt and squeezed him quite hard. What Alexander said with his kiss was _We are back together now and I missed you_. What Alexander said with his furious undressing of Washington was _I missed you so dearly I am unable to express it_

Washington helped himself out of his clothes. He kissed the man as if he had not seen him in many months, just because of just that reason. He had not forgotten their passion, or the way their bodies moved, or pleasure. Alexander kissed him hard on the mouth instead of saying _I apologize_ , and Washington wrapped his arms around that body and held him very close instead of saying _I accept your apology._

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can find me for further questions on tumblr at [iniquiticity](http://iniquiticity.tumblr.com), or on twitter at [@picklesnake](https://twitter.com/picklesnake).


End file.
